I'm exactly a month returned from Asia and the neurological symptoms caused by my diseased blood have begun to make me question my own sanity. I fear that I will soon be dead, but before that I will probably infect many others. The only solution is to take my own life.
Just kidding. I have been getting flashbacks, though. Of the night on Gili T. when the all of the alien stars of the southern hemisphere shone as brightly in the sky as the luminescent algae forming constellations in the sea. Of the boy muezzin practicing his adhan on the town's loudspeakers. Of the moon on the ocean and the waves on Indonesia.
So I'll try to convey, as best as I can narrate retrospectively (with apologies to N. N. Taleb) what happened in the now-intervening three months:
Day 17 & 18: Three days of peace and quiet is my fill. I bid Bao's Fishmerchant Guesthouse goodbye and board the minibus for Krabi Town. Five Brits board in Khlong Kong who've spent the night at the concert -- Job 2 Do, a local reggae artist with one good song: "Do Chan Dai" -- which I opted out of. Shades of Ko Phi-Phi. I keep to myself and disembark 3 hours later in Krabi Town. The Brits demand to be taken to their hostel (the Pak-Up, mistaken for the "Un-Pack" by ye Brits) and I jump out where the driver is pulled over, a riverwalk on a mangrove-threaded bank where street vendors do trade in fruitshakes, oddmeats and noodles. I sling my packs and walk to find a cheap room. Krabi Town has a lot, at the cheapest prices I'll see in Thailand but for imaginably spartan conditions. One hundred baht (about US$3.10) buys you a double-wide closet with a lightbulb and fan, a mattress, pillow and sheet. Good enough. That night I go out to the Old West Bar where I meet two English girls, then we're all off to the Buffalo Bar where the owner and his friends are playing bad covers of classic rock tunes. They do "Do Chan Dai" on my request. Hell, I missed hearing it live last night. The girls make an early night of it but I finish my beer and have a conversation with a Canadian (with one day left in Thailand before he flies back to a newly repossessed home and estranged girlfriend in Canadia) and a Kiwi (who's just begun his trip and is unsure how long he'll be gone or just what in the hell he'll do next). We eventually move back to the Old West Bar where the DJ, a skinny Thai with a greasy black pompadour, is spinning the Doors and selling drinking-straws filled with "cocaine", one of which the Kiwi buys (for around US$100). It's not coke, but some sort of designer amphetamine with an hallucinogenic kick that gives you the walleye and the dipsydoodle, but without the full coldcockin' teethrocker. You know what I mean, a real boom-BANG! Kidding. From all reports -- I didn't partake of any hard drugs in Thailand, out of a prudent fear of their Draconian anti-drug (re: license to extort) laws -- the powder inside the straw was as inert as chalk. We end up drinking beer until the sun is in a fair way to rise. I go for a walk along the river as the boys go home, feeling pretty good, and before you know it I'm going for a run. Still drunk, I run along the river until I come to a jungle gym where I do a few pull-ups and half an abdominal routine. I run back to my room, really feeling my oats now, and flush all my tobacco down the toilet, determined to quit and devote myself to an healthful life from that moment forward. I catch forty winks and wake, still drunk, to move to a yet cheaper hostel that I'd found the night before (about five minutes after I'd already checked in to the first one). I fall asleep again and wake up with a nasty hangover and a lingering determination not to smoke. After a water and a Sprite I feel partly human again (to be continued...)
Friday, May 20, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
Reasons I'll be glad to leave Thailand
The women: Much is said of Thai women's beauty, supplicatory nature, eagerness to please, etcetera etcetera. As for their beauty, there is bound to be a couple lookers even in a women's maximum security prison, but the rest will probably be masculine, busted and wore-out hoes who are crazier than a shit-house rat. The proportions in Thailand are roughly the same. It's not that I can't appreciate Asian beauty. On the contrary, I find them to be -- and here I broadly generalize, no pun intended -- more softly feminine and sensuous than their Western counterparts with beautiful, deep black pools for eyes and a wonderful languour about them even when they're working their lovely asses off, which most Asian women -- again in contrast with most, that is, not all, of their Western sisters -- do on a daily basis simply to survive, and modesty is something that they know the meaning of. Much props. However, the women in Thailand, due likely to their extended contact with farangs from all nations, have adopted what they take to be the Western standard of beauty and seduction, with horrible results: they use whitening products for their skin which ends up looking like they've been rolled in honey and slapped with flour, they think that grabbing a guy's arm and pulling him towards them constitutes a legitimate claim on his time, and they think that they're sitting on platinum which magically bestows upon them the right to act all kinds of stupid. Now this assessment, granted, is not applicable to the good girls in Thailand, but the good girls in Thailand are either hidden away, married at 14, Muslim or just generally uninterested in farang men because of our unflattering stereotypical characteristics which are pretty well represented in most of the guy tourists that I've seen operating. In short, unless you have years to stay here, speak perfect Thai or are incredibly lucky, you probably will not meet a good Thai girl. And it is more than likely that the Thai girl you do meet at that bar is not a girl at all...
The landscape: Like a lot, i.e. all, of third-world countries, the Thai people survived solely on local agriculture for a lot longer than the western world and are therefore pretty ignorant of the effects that synthetic products have on the environment. While you can toss a banana peel just about anywhere and be confident that it won't poison or kill something, the same is not true of an "empty" quart of oil. Garbage festoons the wilderness here, to a comic/depressing extent in some places, e.g. Phi Phi, and to a lesser and perhaps even more depressing extent in places like Khao Sok which receive a lot less tourists and are much more staunchly "protected" by law and the locals. It seems that all "protected national lands" means here in Thailand is that you can't build a McDonald's right on the spot, but instead have to move it to just outside the boundary line. Regardless of the garbage, I've seen a lot prettier places. The limestone stacks are pretty cool, yeah, but not breathtaking in the way that a panoramic view of the Rockies from on high is. And the beaches, well, they're beaches without good surf, with too many people and the marine life has nearly all been killed by overfishing and pollution. And the beaches are supposedly the most stunning part of Thailand. I remain unstunned. So, the most I can say about the landscape is, "Eh."
The language: At first I found the Thai people's English solecisms and malaprops cute; a menu listed the lobster at 700 baht per kilo, and the "crap" at 500 baht per kilo. And I was going to have the crap, as well, but not for that price. The "vermiform appendix", while perfectly spelled, was understandably cheaper. The place names are also amusing to an English speaker with a somewhat juvenile sense of humor, e.g. "Damrong Rd.": shit, I knew I should've taken a left back there; "Kok Khain": that explains the white dust everywhere; "Bangkok" and "Phuket": do I need to elaborate? But after a while of listening to Thai being spoken I find it unbeautiful at best. 33% nasal, 33% guttural, 33% whiningly pitched and repetitive, repetitive, repetitive. It is a language suited neither for poetry nor for song, and to hear it spoken is to want to get away from it. Most of the time I just block it out, but sometimes, as when I was getting my hair cut by an old Thai woman who kept muttering to herself, I want to run screaming down the street.
The attitude: Yes, the Thais smile a lot, and that's because they're dishonest, cunning and mercenary; at best it's because they are obsessed with "face", that is, presenting a good one. If you think a smile is means the person wearing it is necessarily a pleasant person, then I'd like to move to your planet. Of course my cynicism doesn't extend to every single Thai I've ever met, only to the majority of them. Oh yeah, and if you move off of the tourist trail, you're gonna see a lot less smiles and a lot more open hostility. If you're a farang, you represent a dollar sign and not a potential friend from abroad.
Paying the farang price: Cheap? Comparatively. You're still being taken for a ride...
Reasons I'll come back to Thailand:
The landscape: Like a lot, i.e. all, of third-world countries, the Thai people survived solely on local agriculture for a lot longer than the western world and are therefore pretty ignorant of the effects that synthetic products have on the environment. While you can toss a banana peel just about anywhere and be confident that it won't poison or kill something, the same is not true of an "empty" quart of oil. Garbage festoons the wilderness here, to a comic/depressing extent in some places, e.g. Phi Phi, and to a lesser and perhaps even more depressing extent in places like Khao Sok which receive a lot less tourists and are much more staunchly "protected" by law and the locals. It seems that all "protected national lands" means here in Thailand is that you can't build a McDonald's right on the spot, but instead have to move it to just outside the boundary line. Regardless of the garbage, I've seen a lot prettier places. The limestone stacks are pretty cool, yeah, but not breathtaking in the way that a panoramic view of the Rockies from on high is. And the beaches, well, they're beaches without good surf, with too many people and the marine life has nearly all been killed by overfishing and pollution. And the beaches are supposedly the most stunning part of Thailand. I remain unstunned. So, the most I can say about the landscape is, "Eh."
The language: At first I found the Thai people's English solecisms and malaprops cute; a menu listed the lobster at 700 baht per kilo, and the "crap" at 500 baht per kilo. And I was going to have the crap, as well, but not for that price. The "vermiform appendix", while perfectly spelled, was understandably cheaper. The place names are also amusing to an English speaker with a somewhat juvenile sense of humor, e.g. "Damrong Rd.": shit, I knew I should've taken a left back there; "Kok Khain": that explains the white dust everywhere; "Bangkok" and "Phuket": do I need to elaborate? But after a while of listening to Thai being spoken I find it unbeautiful at best. 33% nasal, 33% guttural, 33% whiningly pitched and repetitive, repetitive, repetitive. It is a language suited neither for poetry nor for song, and to hear it spoken is to want to get away from it. Most of the time I just block it out, but sometimes, as when I was getting my hair cut by an old Thai woman who kept muttering to herself, I want to run screaming down the street.
The attitude: Yes, the Thais smile a lot, and that's because they're dishonest, cunning and mercenary; at best it's because they are obsessed with "face", that is, presenting a good one. If you think a smile is means the person wearing it is necessarily a pleasant person, then I'd like to move to your planet. Of course my cynicism doesn't extend to every single Thai I've ever met, only to the majority of them. Oh yeah, and if you move off of the tourist trail, you're gonna see a lot less smiles and a lot more open hostility. If you're a farang, you represent a dollar sign and not a potential friend from abroad.
Paying the farang price: Cheap? Comparatively. You're still being taken for a ride...
Reasons I'll come back to Thailand:
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Days 14-16
Day 14: Get me the hell out of Phi Phi. Risto and I hop the first boat for Koh Lanta and as we step off of it Risto is again buttonholed by a tuk-tuk driver who "knows a good place to stay." I go along for the ride but am getting sick of being shuttled around and long to simply strike out on my own, start walking and see where the road takes me. We arrive at the Ting Tong, an irie bar owned by Tofi who also promotes Muy Thai fights and concerts, sells party favors and shoots pool with the local police. I strike up a conversation with a Canadian expat named Jocko who tells me that during certain times of the year Koh Lanta's beaches are literally piled with the garbage from Koh Phi Phi. The monsoon rains wash it all away, but the tourists are coming... As a matter of fact when we stepped off the boat there was a Phi Phi feeling to the port town, complete with an English expat who threw a flyer for his bar at us as we passed in our tuk-tuk. Fuck fuck. But for now Koh Lanta is quiet. I pitch my tent on the beach and fall asleep.
Day 15: I feel as if I've finally arrived in Thailand, or at least at a place where I feel as if I can unwind and stay for a while. Ironically, the feeling of wanting to travel on my own, extemporaneously -- along with the fact that there is a small breaking wave a bit south of us and I take this as a sign that I'm meant to follow it (and follow it I will, all the way to Bali, but again I'm getting ahead of myself) -- makes me pack up the tent and start walking down the beach. I tell Risto that it's time to part ways and I feel surprisingly light on my feet as I walk down the beach. I'm smiling. After a few kilometers the beach turns into rocks and I walk to the road. The Thais who pass me are all smiles and "hello"s, no doubt surprised to see a farang on foot, laden with a gigantic bottle of Cooly Fresh water and a backpack. I have a lunch of fresh pineapple, which I peel myself, and tamarind which is so energizing that, as a Frenchman at the Ting Tong told me, if you were to eat it everyday you'd operate with "full power, 24-hour, no shower." The girls on motorscooters who pass me as I walk are some of the most beautiful I've seen thus far, and when I finally arrive in Lanta Old Town I find that the people are gracious, happy and quick to laugh or play a joke. They've got a charming rascality to them and the town itself is a prosperous, quiet place not geared towards tourism. There are, of course, tourists as well, but most of those who come to Lanta are of a different breed than the Phi Phi set. In Lanta Old Town I stay at an old fish merchant's turned guesthouse and the owner, Bao, teaches me a little Thai. It's a quiet evening in Old Town and I feel fine.
Day 16: Here in Koh Lanta I've begun to hear the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer in the evening, a sound which will become more common the further south I go. It is a softly beautiful sound, almost a lament, and in these tropical surroundings under a pastel sky I too feel the urge to fall on my knees and touch my head to the ground. It's a much needed change from Phi Phi where one hears the flyer-plastering booze shills calling the sober to drink. Lanta as yet is a far cry from Phi Phi, but probably will not escape the onslaught of the tourists' trampling feet; sadly it is much too beautiful, the people too welcoming, its soul too pure to escape defilement. But right now in Lanta Old Town all I hear is the wind wafting the muezzin's wail out over the water. The rhythmic ploonkaploonk of my gigantic water bottle as I walked south out of Khlong Khong and the Ting Tong was nearly as sweet a sound to me, signifying a sort of resilient solitude, as if I carried on my back and in my two hands everything I could need to survive and even thrive. My tent, a few clothes, first aid kit, water and a bit of food are all I need. In other news Bao, the owner of the old fish merchant guesthouse, is a jolly character. I talked him down from 500b to 400 for my room the day I came in, and he has refused payment for letting me borrow his motorscooter after we'd agreed on a price of 200b for the day. Now he keeps jokingly suggesting that I borrow his flip-flops when I step out into the street. I told him I'd buy him dinner if he gave me a Thai lesson during the meal, but he declined. I don't think he wants to repeat word after word untold times in his 5-tonal language for some silly farang from god-knows-where-Wyoming-is. Mai bpen rai.
Day 15: I feel as if I've finally arrived in Thailand, or at least at a place where I feel as if I can unwind and stay for a while. Ironically, the feeling of wanting to travel on my own, extemporaneously -- along with the fact that there is a small breaking wave a bit south of us and I take this as a sign that I'm meant to follow it (and follow it I will, all the way to Bali, but again I'm getting ahead of myself) -- makes me pack up the tent and start walking down the beach. I tell Risto that it's time to part ways and I feel surprisingly light on my feet as I walk down the beach. I'm smiling. After a few kilometers the beach turns into rocks and I walk to the road. The Thais who pass me are all smiles and "hello"s, no doubt surprised to see a farang on foot, laden with a gigantic bottle of Cooly Fresh water and a backpack. I have a lunch of fresh pineapple, which I peel myself, and tamarind which is so energizing that, as a Frenchman at the Ting Tong told me, if you were to eat it everyday you'd operate with "full power, 24-hour, no shower." The girls on motorscooters who pass me as I walk are some of the most beautiful I've seen thus far, and when I finally arrive in Lanta Old Town I find that the people are gracious, happy and quick to laugh or play a joke. They've got a charming rascality to them and the town itself is a prosperous, quiet place not geared towards tourism. There are, of course, tourists as well, but most of those who come to Lanta are of a different breed than the Phi Phi set. In Lanta Old Town I stay at an old fish merchant's turned guesthouse and the owner, Bao, teaches me a little Thai. It's a quiet evening in Old Town and I feel fine.
Day 16: Here in Koh Lanta I've begun to hear the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer in the evening, a sound which will become more common the further south I go. It is a softly beautiful sound, almost a lament, and in these tropical surroundings under a pastel sky I too feel the urge to fall on my knees and touch my head to the ground. It's a much needed change from Phi Phi where one hears the flyer-plastering booze shills calling the sober to drink. Lanta as yet is a far cry from Phi Phi, but probably will not escape the onslaught of the tourists' trampling feet; sadly it is much too beautiful, the people too welcoming, its soul too pure to escape defilement. But right now in Lanta Old Town all I hear is the wind wafting the muezzin's wail out over the water. The rhythmic ploonkaploonk of my gigantic water bottle as I walked south out of Khlong Khong and the Ting Tong was nearly as sweet a sound to me, signifying a sort of resilient solitude, as if I carried on my back and in my two hands everything I could need to survive and even thrive. My tent, a few clothes, first aid kit, water and a bit of food are all I need. In other news Bao, the owner of the old fish merchant guesthouse, is a jolly character. I talked him down from 500b to 400 for my room the day I came in, and he has refused payment for letting me borrow his motorscooter after we'd agreed on a price of 200b for the day. Now he keeps jokingly suggesting that I borrow his flip-flops when I step out into the street. I told him I'd buy him dinner if he gave me a Thai lesson during the meal, but he declined. I don't think he wants to repeat word after word untold times in his 5-tonal language for some silly farang from god-knows-where-Wyoming-is. Mai bpen rai.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Days 11-13
Day 11: We wake up early, check out of the bungalows and drive to the marina to meet Tom. He seems like a good guy but the boat needs a lot of work before it will be ready to make the trip. He gives us an estimation of about two weeks until she's seaworthy, and hands me a can of tropical strength bug spray. I am now thoroughly repellent. We agree to meet Tom in two weeks and drive south back into Phuket Town for the night before leaving for Ko Phi Phi in the morning. We check into the Thalang Guesthouse and get a great room with a private garden -- complete with an outside shower -- for 200b. I go out for a walk, unaware that it is Chinese New Year's Eve -- year of the rabbit -- and there is a free concert in the park given by five of the cutest Thai girls in all of the land. I rush back to the hotel to grab my camera and head back out. After an hour at the concert I'm done and I head back to the Roxy to see if there's anyone I know there. There isn't, but there is an impromptu show given next door by three Thais chasing a rat running around their restaurant. They eventually whack him with a broom and pose for a picture with their prize. I'll end up eating one of his rat brethren on Phi Phi, but I'm getting ahead of myself.
Day 12: Up early to catch the ferry to Phi Phi. Everyone on the bus to the ferry is wearing white sunglasses -- refer to the website "Things I Hate About Backpacking" to learn more about the psychological type of people who wear white sunglasses (hint: they tend to be douchebags) -- and this proves to be portentous. As we all load onto the boat there come more and more twenty-somethings with less and less clothes on and I think to myself that this is a microcosm of Phi Phi, minus everyone's weight in booze. As we near the island I can see that it is packed to the gills with people all lowing like cattle and milling around aimlessly. Risto and I make a dash for our bags and step off of the frying pan and into the fire. It is 20b to get onto the island for a "cleaning" fee because Phi Phi is a "protected" marine reserve. I might as well have crumpled the 20b note up and thrown it into the water because Phi Phi is filthy, and I'm not talking about "Clean your room!" filthy, I'm talking "strike a match and the whole place goes up in flames" filthy. There is raw sewage running down the street and garbage literally everywhere. An unholy stench makes you wish for a respirator and rises in visible waves from the sea and the beaches. Going for a swim on Phi Phi is simply not an option unless you're into hepatitis and/or E. coli, yet there are plenty of mindless youth from around the world frolicking in the garbage like the happiest shit-flies on the planet. The booze probably helps, and there is a lot of booze. Phi Phi's specialty is "the Bucket", a sandpail full of Sang Som rum, RedBull, and Coke. At night the world's dimmest and drunkest down about ten of these buckets per person and suddenly become impervious to third-degree burns. The fireshows, Thais who juggle flaming hoops, wands and bolos, are entrancing to watch at the beginning of the evening, but by the end of the night all of the drunken farangs are giving it a try as well and it can get pretty ugly. In the morning there'll be bandages and burn ointment, but for tonight it's open bar at the amateur circus. I check into the Rock Backpacker Hostel dorm and immediately spray the place with my bedbug fogger; it looks like that type of place. Sure enough, after I've stowed my gear, and bought two locks for the safety box at the head of my bed which was previously sealed with zip-ties, I start talking to a few of the other inmates and one girl shows me the tell-tale line of bites on her ankle and asks if it could be bedbugs. I point to bite #1 and label it "breakfast", bite #2 "lunch" and bite #3 "dinner". An English lad -- more probably a "chav", the English equivalent of our American "wiggers" -- in white sunglasses recovering from the night before tells me that Phi Phi is "good fun" but that Koh Lanta is a bore. I decide then and there to get to Koh Lanta as soon as possible. There are, however, some people worth talking to on Phi Phi and as fate would have it they're staying in the same room as me. Ruben is from the Netherlands -- "All anyone ever asks me about is the coffee shops" -- and Vinny is from Italy. They are both homeward bound and have decided to make Phi Phi their last stop. We go out for an unbearably spicy meal, the waiter laughing at us as he watches us suffer through it, too proud to push it away and watch it spontaneously combust. Risto joins us midway through and after a few beers we're ready to brave the shit-show that is Phi Phi. We stop first at a reggae bar which has staged, i.e. "fixed", Muy Thai fights every night. It's my first Muy Thai fight and even though the winner is decided beforehand, some of the blows connect with devastating results. I wouldn't want to piss these guys off, however unimposing they look at 5'5" and 130 lbs. So, after a few bouts and faced with the prospect of watching two amateur Thai women fight -- a fun idea for the first five boring minutes -- we head off to the beach and the fireshows. Ruben, Risto, Vinny and I watch for a while and then hit the dance floor hard. After a while I decide to take a break and shoot some pool with some fun-loving Chileans. Then, suddenly, it's two o' clock in the morning. On Phi Phi two o' clock means that everything shuts down, everything. For an island where booze is the only thing to do this is one helluva disappointment. We all head home but Ruben and I meet a Dutch girl along the way and decide to see if there's anything, anything, open. As it turns out there is. One food vendor is catering to a late-night crowd of Thais and we order up one of her specialties. I briefly wonder what the meat is, but after seeing one unmistakeable cross-section and a tiny rump roast with a tail still attached I put two and two together. We're eating rat. Still, the spices are just right and we finish the meal with gusto. Plus, it was free-range rat.
Day 13: Risto and I go for a boat tour of Phi Phi Don (the island we're staying on) and Phi Phi Ley (the sister island where Maya Bay, from "The Beach", is). Tourists, tourists everywhere, fouling the water and polluting the air. I'm thoroughly disgusted with all the gawking, preening, picture-happy farangs destroying, directly or indirectly, such a once-beautiful place and I decide to leave on the morn. Too depressed for revelry, I leave the boys to it and go to bed early.
Day 12: Up early to catch the ferry to Phi Phi. Everyone on the bus to the ferry is wearing white sunglasses -- refer to the website "Things I Hate About Backpacking" to learn more about the psychological type of people who wear white sunglasses (hint: they tend to be douchebags) -- and this proves to be portentous. As we all load onto the boat there come more and more twenty-somethings with less and less clothes on and I think to myself that this is a microcosm of Phi Phi, minus everyone's weight in booze. As we near the island I can see that it is packed to the gills with people all lowing like cattle and milling around aimlessly. Risto and I make a dash for our bags and step off of the frying pan and into the fire. It is 20b to get onto the island for a "cleaning" fee because Phi Phi is a "protected" marine reserve. I might as well have crumpled the 20b note up and thrown it into the water because Phi Phi is filthy, and I'm not talking about "Clean your room!" filthy, I'm talking "strike a match and the whole place goes up in flames" filthy. There is raw sewage running down the street and garbage literally everywhere. An unholy stench makes you wish for a respirator and rises in visible waves from the sea and the beaches. Going for a swim on Phi Phi is simply not an option unless you're into hepatitis and/or E. coli, yet there are plenty of mindless youth from around the world frolicking in the garbage like the happiest shit-flies on the planet. The booze probably helps, and there is a lot of booze. Phi Phi's specialty is "the Bucket", a sandpail full of Sang Som rum, RedBull, and Coke. At night the world's dimmest and drunkest down about ten of these buckets per person and suddenly become impervious to third-degree burns. The fireshows, Thais who juggle flaming hoops, wands and bolos, are entrancing to watch at the beginning of the evening, but by the end of the night all of the drunken farangs are giving it a try as well and it can get pretty ugly. In the morning there'll be bandages and burn ointment, but for tonight it's open bar at the amateur circus. I check into the Rock Backpacker Hostel dorm and immediately spray the place with my bedbug fogger; it looks like that type of place. Sure enough, after I've stowed my gear, and bought two locks for the safety box at the head of my bed which was previously sealed with zip-ties, I start talking to a few of the other inmates and one girl shows me the tell-tale line of bites on her ankle and asks if it could be bedbugs. I point to bite #1 and label it "breakfast", bite #2 "lunch" and bite #3 "dinner". An English lad -- more probably a "chav", the English equivalent of our American "wiggers" -- in white sunglasses recovering from the night before tells me that Phi Phi is "good fun" but that Koh Lanta is a bore. I decide then and there to get to Koh Lanta as soon as possible. There are, however, some people worth talking to on Phi Phi and as fate would have it they're staying in the same room as me. Ruben is from the Netherlands -- "All anyone ever asks me about is the coffee shops" -- and Vinny is from Italy. They are both homeward bound and have decided to make Phi Phi their last stop. We go out for an unbearably spicy meal, the waiter laughing at us as he watches us suffer through it, too proud to push it away and watch it spontaneously combust. Risto joins us midway through and after a few beers we're ready to brave the shit-show that is Phi Phi. We stop first at a reggae bar which has staged, i.e. "fixed", Muy Thai fights every night. It's my first Muy Thai fight and even though the winner is decided beforehand, some of the blows connect with devastating results. I wouldn't want to piss these guys off, however unimposing they look at 5'5" and 130 lbs. So, after a few bouts and faced with the prospect of watching two amateur Thai women fight -- a fun idea for the first five boring minutes -- we head off to the beach and the fireshows. Ruben, Risto, Vinny and I watch for a while and then hit the dance floor hard. After a while I decide to take a break and shoot some pool with some fun-loving Chileans. Then, suddenly, it's two o' clock in the morning. On Phi Phi two o' clock means that everything shuts down, everything. For an island where booze is the only thing to do this is one helluva disappointment. We all head home but Ruben and I meet a Dutch girl along the way and decide to see if there's anything, anything, open. As it turns out there is. One food vendor is catering to a late-night crowd of Thais and we order up one of her specialties. I briefly wonder what the meat is, but after seeing one unmistakeable cross-section and a tiny rump roast with a tail still attached I put two and two together. We're eating rat. Still, the spices are just right and we finish the meal with gusto. Plus, it was free-range rat.
Day 13: Risto and I go for a boat tour of Phi Phi Don (the island we're staying on) and Phi Phi Ley (the sister island where Maya Bay, from "The Beach", is). Tourists, tourists everywhere, fouling the water and polluting the air. I'm thoroughly disgusted with all the gawking, preening, picture-happy farangs destroying, directly or indirectly, such a once-beautiful place and I decide to leave on the morn. Too depressed for revelry, I leave the boys to it and go to bed early.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Day 7-10
Day 7: West again to the beaches north of Patong: Kamala, Surin and Bang Tao, each quieter than the last. We spend most of the day and Bang Tao taking the sun and then head back to Phuket Town. The line of bites along my arm has spread to my back and both of my feet and lower legs, they're really unbearably itchy. After a sleepless night I find out why on the morning of...
Day 8: Bedbugs! One of the bigger ones -- about the size of an apple seed -- gorged himself to death on me in the night and I found his bloated corpse in the morning. Apparently I am severely allergic to bedbugs and now I'm itching like a junky. We check out of the On On -- now I know why Robert Carlyle's character committed suicide in the movie -- and hit the road a la Easy Rider, northwest to Nai Thon where the bungalows are expensive and then further north to Nai Yang where we find a good deal at 400b. per night. The beach is nice, just enough people for company, the girls' age-to-toplessness ratio just right. That afternoon I go for a run shoeless along the beach. I tell myself that I'll just run up to the point I see in the distance. An hour later and I'm still running; the point seems to have gotten a little closer. Half an hour after that and I'm still not there. A shooting pain goes up my leg. I fell into a sort of a trance as I ran, not noticing the growing blood-blisters on my feet until they nearly cripple me. I reinvent profanity when I turn around to see that I've run nearly half the length of the island and am now effectively hobbled by my sheer enthusiasm. So I begin to swim back, soon realizing that that's not going to work, what with darkness quickly falling and jellyfish in the water. I ask a guy with a motor-raft how much he would charge to ferry me back to my bungalow and he quotes me 1000b. Nothing doing. I walk to the nearest hotel and have them call me a taxi, but when the taxi arrives he doesn't have a meter and wants to charge me 500b. Fuck that. It seems that the tourist boom has rung dollar signs into the eyes of all of the Thais it has touched, and even a guy who can barely walk can't catch a break. But barely walk I did, for four hours back down the beach, the monotony only broken by a beautiful sunset in neon pastels and a chance meeting with a Lithuanian girl who gives me a drink of water. I spend my first night in a bungalow, probably the soundest I've slept since I've arrived, but...
Day 9: I've brought the bedbugs with me in my luggage and I wake up itching in the morning like it's my job. Can't take much more of this and so I go on a hunt for poison. At a pet shop I pick up some tick powder, at 7-11 -- Thailand is chock-full of 7-11s -- I grab some poison fog, at a pharmacy I pick up some calamine lotion with H-1 blockers (corticosteroids to stop the itch), but the lotion doesn't work nearly as well as the Tiger Balm given to me by the owner of the bungalows. I use the shotgun approach on the bedbugs: liberally dusting the entire bungalow and everything I own with the tick powder, fogging the shit out of the bungalow and applying a layer of 25% DEET over a layer of Tiger Balm all over my pustule-ridden corpus. That seems to take care of the bedbugs, but now I look as if I have a contagious skin disease and smell as if I'm a geriatric pest exterminator. Risto & I take the bikes to the northeast part of the island where there is a marina. We leave our contact info on the notice board and two hours later we get a call from Tom, a retired long-line fisherman from Alaska and the captain of the sailing vessel Saveke. He wants us to help him sail his boat down to Malaysia on its yearly visa run. Sure, why not? Risto & I decide to celebrate. At the Freedom Bar Risto tries Thai whiskey for the first time -- I still haven't -- and says it tastes like bathtub spirits with some cinnamon and oil of cardamom mixed in. I have a discussion on Tom Waits with a Scotsman. We end up in a bus converted into a karaoke bar and I treat the crowd to the dulcet tones of Dano, singing some godawful Thai song as best I can.
Day 10: We lay on the beach...all...day...long...
Day 8: Bedbugs! One of the bigger ones -- about the size of an apple seed -- gorged himself to death on me in the night and I found his bloated corpse in the morning. Apparently I am severely allergic to bedbugs and now I'm itching like a junky. We check out of the On On -- now I know why Robert Carlyle's character committed suicide in the movie -- and hit the road a la Easy Rider, northwest to Nai Thon where the bungalows are expensive and then further north to Nai Yang where we find a good deal at 400b. per night. The beach is nice, just enough people for company, the girls' age-to-toplessness ratio just right. That afternoon I go for a run shoeless along the beach. I tell myself that I'll just run up to the point I see in the distance. An hour later and I'm still running; the point seems to have gotten a little closer. Half an hour after that and I'm still not there. A shooting pain goes up my leg. I fell into a sort of a trance as I ran, not noticing the growing blood-blisters on my feet until they nearly cripple me. I reinvent profanity when I turn around to see that I've run nearly half the length of the island and am now effectively hobbled by my sheer enthusiasm. So I begin to swim back, soon realizing that that's not going to work, what with darkness quickly falling and jellyfish in the water. I ask a guy with a motor-raft how much he would charge to ferry me back to my bungalow and he quotes me 1000b. Nothing doing. I walk to the nearest hotel and have them call me a taxi, but when the taxi arrives he doesn't have a meter and wants to charge me 500b. Fuck that. It seems that the tourist boom has rung dollar signs into the eyes of all of the Thais it has touched, and even a guy who can barely walk can't catch a break. But barely walk I did, for four hours back down the beach, the monotony only broken by a beautiful sunset in neon pastels and a chance meeting with a Lithuanian girl who gives me a drink of water. I spend my first night in a bungalow, probably the soundest I've slept since I've arrived, but...
Day 9: I've brought the bedbugs with me in my luggage and I wake up itching in the morning like it's my job. Can't take much more of this and so I go on a hunt for poison. At a pet shop I pick up some tick powder, at 7-11 -- Thailand is chock-full of 7-11s -- I grab some poison fog, at a pharmacy I pick up some calamine lotion with H-1 blockers (corticosteroids to stop the itch), but the lotion doesn't work nearly as well as the Tiger Balm given to me by the owner of the bungalows. I use the shotgun approach on the bedbugs: liberally dusting the entire bungalow and everything I own with the tick powder, fogging the shit out of the bungalow and applying a layer of 25% DEET over a layer of Tiger Balm all over my pustule-ridden corpus. That seems to take care of the bedbugs, but now I look as if I have a contagious skin disease and smell as if I'm a geriatric pest exterminator. Risto & I take the bikes to the northeast part of the island where there is a marina. We leave our contact info on the notice board and two hours later we get a call from Tom, a retired long-line fisherman from Alaska and the captain of the sailing vessel Saveke. He wants us to help him sail his boat down to Malaysia on its yearly visa run. Sure, why not? Risto & I decide to celebrate. At the Freedom Bar Risto tries Thai whiskey for the first time -- I still haven't -- and says it tastes like bathtub spirits with some cinnamon and oil of cardamom mixed in. I have a discussion on Tom Waits with a Scotsman. We end up in a bus converted into a karaoke bar and I treat the crowd to the dulcet tones of Dano, singing some godawful Thai song as best I can.
Day 10: We lay on the beach...all...day...long...
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Dano's Day 5 & 6
Day 5: Woke up, broke the fast at the tom yum place and met Martin's colleague Tarmo at noon to get the motor scooters. Driving in Thailand is on the left and is done with a sort of devil-may-care disregard for the limits of both municipal code and human physiology. To have the wind in my hair -- and the hair on the back of my neck on end -- as I wove my way through Thai traffic was exhilirating to say the least. I wore a big smile on my face -- I couldn't do otherwise through clenched teeth & my lips flapping in the wind -- for the rest of the day as we zipped around Phuket. A double honk of the horn is heard a lot in Thailand -- I think that's where the tuk-tuk gets its name: an onomatopoeic label for the sound of its horn -- and means, generally, either check your shit because something's wrong with your whip, or else, "Get the fuck out of the way because I'm right behind you and I'm coming through." Whenever Risto would pull in front of me as we rode I'd give him surreptitious double-taps on the horn, or slide up behind him at stoplights with a screeching of my breaks. He never tired of that. That night back at the Roxy Risto and I met up with Shirley and Alex, an LHC alumnus who is taking a TEFL course in Phuket. We made a pretty early night of it, in the course of which bedbugs attacked.
Day 6: Up early again, scratching like mad at a row of five red bites on the back of my left arm. I don't think much about it at the time and work a lather of DEET onto myself before I go out. Risto & I head for the southernmost tip of Phuket to start beach hopping. Rawai beach has a fish market with squid, all manner of fish, conch and a cornucopia of shells. There are some sea gypsies there, their muscles like steel cables taut underneath their skin, tanned a coffee brown by the tropical sun. They ply and mend their nets and sit in the shade of the coconut palms. On to Nai Harn beach with loads of Frenchies soaking up the sun, a beautiful wat (Buddhist temple) and a lagoon; it's one of my favorite beaches on Phuket. North to Kata Noi beach, a Russian hangout. Risto teaches me some key phrases in Russian, e.g. "You are very beautiful, what is your name?" Quick swim in the turquoise crystal waters of the Andaman Sea and then north to Karon Beach. More Russians and the best swimming beach on Phuket as there are no damn buoy lines (yet there are dippy girls zooming around blindfolded on jetskis). On to Paradise Beach just southwest of Patong where we are caught in a rainstorm that begins in an instant, battering the tiny beach with fist-sized droplets driven by a howling wind. Half an hour later and it's stopped as quickly as it started. Next stop, Patong Beach. Patong is the main tourist drag, and what a drag it is. Shop owners practically grab your hand as you walk by, shaking your arm out of your socket and working the only English they know: "Where you from? You come and see (insert worthless trinket, bauble or dubious-quality suit here). I make it cheap for you!" Everyone is grimly determined to enjoy themselves within their two-feet-in-diameter personal space and they all jostle and elbow their way along as if there were someplace to go. Risto tries to contact his friend who lives here, but he's not home and so we head back to Phuket Town. Once there we meet with Shirley, Alex, and an Indonesian girl named Ratih. Shirley tells me that my tattoo -- the one I've had for many, many years and still was not exactly sure what it meant -- is a traditional Chinese ideogram and that, although she is Chinese, she can only decipher half of it. It starts, "Piercing. Power..." something something. Sounds pretty good to me. I'll have to wait until I meet a Lithuanian before the rest of it is translated for me. So, our diverse little band of travelers is joined later on by three Thais, an Austrian, an Australian and a Cuban-Ojibwe from Timbuktu. We all go out dancing and I go Travolta on them, at one point even doing the chicken dance. Ratih and I head back to the On On for a traveler's powwow. She tells me about Indonesia and I begin considering travels further south...
Day 6: Up early again, scratching like mad at a row of five red bites on the back of my left arm. I don't think much about it at the time and work a lather of DEET onto myself before I go out. Risto & I head for the southernmost tip of Phuket to start beach hopping. Rawai beach has a fish market with squid, all manner of fish, conch and a cornucopia of shells. There are some sea gypsies there, their muscles like steel cables taut underneath their skin, tanned a coffee brown by the tropical sun. They ply and mend their nets and sit in the shade of the coconut palms. On to Nai Harn beach with loads of Frenchies soaking up the sun, a beautiful wat (Buddhist temple) and a lagoon; it's one of my favorite beaches on Phuket. North to Kata Noi beach, a Russian hangout. Risto teaches me some key phrases in Russian, e.g. "You are very beautiful, what is your name?" Quick swim in the turquoise crystal waters of the Andaman Sea and then north to Karon Beach. More Russians and the best swimming beach on Phuket as there are no damn buoy lines (yet there are dippy girls zooming around blindfolded on jetskis). On to Paradise Beach just southwest of Patong where we are caught in a rainstorm that begins in an instant, battering the tiny beach with fist-sized droplets driven by a howling wind. Half an hour later and it's stopped as quickly as it started. Next stop, Patong Beach. Patong is the main tourist drag, and what a drag it is. Shop owners practically grab your hand as you walk by, shaking your arm out of your socket and working the only English they know: "Where you from? You come and see (insert worthless trinket, bauble or dubious-quality suit here). I make it cheap for you!" Everyone is grimly determined to enjoy themselves within their two-feet-in-diameter personal space and they all jostle and elbow their way along as if there were someplace to go. Risto tries to contact his friend who lives here, but he's not home and so we head back to Phuket Town. Once there we meet with Shirley, Alex, and an Indonesian girl named Ratih. Shirley tells me that my tattoo -- the one I've had for many, many years and still was not exactly sure what it meant -- is a traditional Chinese ideogram and that, although she is Chinese, she can only decipher half of it. It starts, "Piercing. Power..." something something. Sounds pretty good to me. I'll have to wait until I meet a Lithuanian before the rest of it is translated for me. So, our diverse little band of travelers is joined later on by three Thais, an Austrian, an Australian and a Cuban-Ojibwe from Timbuktu. We all go out dancing and I go Travolta on them, at one point even doing the chicken dance. Ratih and I head back to the On On for a traveler's powwow. She tells me about Indonesia and I begin considering travels further south...
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Another million dollar idea brought to you by Dan Heil
I've heard a lot of country music since arriving in Thailand, and not shitty country either, but some really good music: Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, Hank Sr. & Jr., Chris LeDoux, etc. I've also seen a lot of Thais wearing western shirts, Wranglers, old Levis, Tony Lama boots and gigantic silver belt buckles. Asking a few of them where they get all this western gear they tell me that a lot of it can be found in second-hand shops, except for the belt buckles. The Thais who are into the cowboy look would ride a bronc bareback to get their hands on a massive belt buckle and some esoteric country music. I think this may have something to do with not only the enduring mystique of the Old West, but also, here in Thailand at least, with the sheer foreign-ness of the big sky country, saloons, sheriffs and gunslingers. The counterpart of this veneration of the foreign is clearly visible in the very common fascination in the West with the customs and imagined goings-on of the Old East, e.g. samurais, I-Ching, yoga and martial arts. So, the million dollar idea: import belt buckles and hard to find western gear, e.g. peace pipes, Native American beadwork, old rifles and pistols, to the East and export hard to find eastern gear to the West. Just another wonderful idea from the mind of Daniel Heil, bringing cultures together since whenever.
Friday, February 11, 2011
the continuing saga...
Day 3: Up early and I'm down to a local joint for some Tom Yam and a fresh pineapple shake. Meet up with Risto and we walk down Sukhumvit Road where, at night, the Lonely Hearts Club come in droves to the Patpong area to drink, be milked of their baht, and perchance get lucky with a person of indeterminate sex. We see an unbelievably intricate Hindu temple and stop at a fruit vendor for some mangosteen, rambutan, lychee, mango and something that looks like a red bell pepper but tastes like an apple. I eat a garlic sausage from a street vendor and get a thankfully quick bout of GI distress. We walk to the Chao Phraya River and are accosted the entire way with calls of, "Tuk-tuk?" and "Where you going?" The Chao Phraya is big and muddy like a lot of rivers. Back at the guesthouse Risto and I treat ourselves to the famous Thai massage, which involves a lot of contortions and cracking of joints. It loosens me up nicely for the bus ride to Phuket. At the bus station we hear the national anthem announced with a blast of static. Everyone stands, including those on the buses. Side-note: the Thai people are inordinately fond of their king who, it must be said, sounds like a genuinely good & intelligent man, and is a jazz musician and composer as well. His picture is everywhere. We get on the bus and ride into the Thai night.
Day 4: We step off the bus in Phuket Town at eight in the morning and are immediately queried as to where we are going and if we should desire a tuk-tuk. The answers are, to the latter: no, and to the former: we are going to the Phuket Grand Royal Hotel to meet with Risto's friend Martin who does a good bit of business in Phuket, renting motor-scooters, taking people SCUBA diving and helping run the Rumblefish Hostel. He takes us to Kata Beach where I have heard of a hostel (Martin's place is full). The owner of said hostel asks us for 1200b per room, up from the 600b listed on hostels.com. I smile and say, "No, thank you." I'm really getting the hang of that. We drive back into Phuket Town where Martin turns us on to the On On Hotel, the place where Leo finds the map in "The Beach". I'm intrigued, not because of its Hollywood associations but because it's the cheapest place in town. For 180b how can you go wrong? Answer: bedbugs. It turns out that that big can of poison fog on the door frame is meant to be used on a daily basis. But I'm getting ahead of myself. We wandered around Phuket Old Town, checking out the cool old architecture, found a great place for Tom Yam and wound up the night at Roxy's, an expat bar where I get to talking to an Alaskan who teaches English at the University of Phuket half the year and runs a setnet site in Alaska during the summer. Through him I meet Shirley, a Chinese couchsurfer who will figure in my story later.
Day 4: We step off the bus in Phuket Town at eight in the morning and are immediately queried as to where we are going and if we should desire a tuk-tuk. The answers are, to the latter: no, and to the former: we are going to the Phuket Grand Royal Hotel to meet with Risto's friend Martin who does a good bit of business in Phuket, renting motor-scooters, taking people SCUBA diving and helping run the Rumblefish Hostel. He takes us to Kata Beach where I have heard of a hostel (Martin's place is full). The owner of said hostel asks us for 1200b per room, up from the 600b listed on hostels.com. I smile and say, "No, thank you." I'm really getting the hang of that. We drive back into Phuket Town where Martin turns us on to the On On Hotel, the place where Leo finds the map in "The Beach". I'm intrigued, not because of its Hollywood associations but because it's the cheapest place in town. For 180b how can you go wrong? Answer: bedbugs. It turns out that that big can of poison fog on the door frame is meant to be used on a daily basis. But I'm getting ahead of myself. We wandered around Phuket Old Town, checking out the cool old architecture, found a great place for Tom Yam and wound up the night at Roxy's, an expat bar where I get to talking to an Alaskan who teaches English at the University of Phuket half the year and runs a setnet site in Alaska during the summer. Through him I meet Shirley, a Chinese couchsurfer who will figure in my story later.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Blow-by-blow, day-by-day
Here is the story thus far, abbreviated though perhaps not a supreme example of the laconic style.
Day 1: Risto & I step off the plane, having been seated next to each other on the flight in from Hong Kong. He is ditched by the sex-touring Finns he was meant to go to Pattaya with, so I invite him into Bangkok. Outside the terminal he is shoe-horned into an unmarked, unmetered cab and I don't speak up fast enough about not taking it. An agreed-upon 500 baht suddenly turns into 1500 as soon as we are on the freeway out of the airport. As the cab, with two Thai men long used to milking baht from tourists, turns into a dimly-lit car lot I get the evil feeling that my stay in Thailand has come to an abrupt halt. However, we simply change cars and are on our way again into Bangkok, this time with one driver who seems harmless in a developmentally challenged way. I wonder if he will be able to find our hostel. He does and I check in. There are no beds left available and so Risto finds digs down the road. Back at the hostel I begin talking with two beautiful, blond Danish girls -- how I love a coffee and Danish in the morning -- who've been, on this trip, to Africa, Indonesia, Malaysia and of course Thailand. They advise me that the surfable waves are all in Indonesia & particularly Bali. They leave in the morning back to Copenhagen and I miss them already. I talk also with a Swede who is here, I gather from a somewhat one-sided conversation on sex, to join the Lonely Hearts Club, by which title I will henceforth refer to those who come to Thailand to get their kicks below the belt, so to speak.
Day 2: Up with the sun. Excellent coffee (some of the only of that quality I'll see in a long while) from a street vendor, shower, and then Risto and I grab breakfast from an alleyway-turned-lunch-counter with several vendors and a lot of locals eating there -- always a good sign. We take a tuk-tuk to the Grand Palace where a friendly guy with excellent English explains that at that particular moment there is a Buddhist prayer session going and, anyways, Risto is wearing shorts which is considered disrespectful to the Buddha -- the former is a lie, the latter, true -- and thus we will not be allowed entry. Instead he shepherds us into another tuk-tuk which he says for the low-low price of 30 b will take us to see the lucky Buddha -- which was pretty cool though unphotographable -- and a silk manufacturer where we can price some uncut silk and also perhaps clothe Risto's shameful legs. I agree as I want to price some silk anyways. Two hours later we have seen three silk suit hawkers, each pushier than the last, one gold & precious stone merchant and, above all, the fabled Thai runaround. Fuck, we've been duped. But in the end it was only 30 baht and we got to see a bit more of the city than we might've just bumbling about on our own. As the tuk-tuk driver drops us back at the Grand Palace all I can think about is buying my bus ticket and getting far and fast away from the noisy hustle of Bangkok. When I go back, however, I'm going to see the inside of the Grand Palace if I have to storm it medieval-style. So, the first cab driver -- a convenient friend of the tuk-tuk driver who's just carted us around to be baht-baited -- offers to take us to the bus station for 500 baht. I say no thanks, smile, curse his mother under my breath and begin to walk away. Risto keeps talking to him. I won't be had again and I intend to walk until I find a metered taxi with a mute driver. Risto gets the picture and catches up with me after about a block. We hop into a cab and get to the bus station for a metered 110 baht. Tickets to Phuket are 628 b for 1st class, including meal service, water, snacks and a coffee in the morning. For 928 b we could've traveled VIP class, which means a wider, fully-reclineable seat without a neighbor. I find out later that both 1st class and VIP ride the same bus, the former on the top level and the latter on the lower of a double-decker bus and, further, that while on the bus you can upgrade to VIP status if you slip the cute stewardess 50 baht. The buses are faster & cheaper than the trains here in Thailand, but the trains offer all passengers sleeping berths & are almost assured not to crash. So, we're ticketed and have one more night in Bangkok. Risto wants to see the spectacle of Khao San Road and I'd rather sleep, but he drags me out anyways. We meet two Estonian girls and an Englishman at a backpacker's bar and go Chang for Chang -- the budget Thai beer -- with them while listening to a spot-on cover band and doing intermittent push-ups (long story). Thence to a dance club where we see some guy getting a blow-job just off the stage. We dance until four in the morning and then it's back to the New Road Guesthouse to grab 40 winks.
Day 1: Risto & I step off the plane, having been seated next to each other on the flight in from Hong Kong. He is ditched by the sex-touring Finns he was meant to go to Pattaya with, so I invite him into Bangkok. Outside the terminal he is shoe-horned into an unmarked, unmetered cab and I don't speak up fast enough about not taking it. An agreed-upon 500 baht suddenly turns into 1500 as soon as we are on the freeway out of the airport. As the cab, with two Thai men long used to milking baht from tourists, turns into a dimly-lit car lot I get the evil feeling that my stay in Thailand has come to an abrupt halt. However, we simply change cars and are on our way again into Bangkok, this time with one driver who seems harmless in a developmentally challenged way. I wonder if he will be able to find our hostel. He does and I check in. There are no beds left available and so Risto finds digs down the road. Back at the hostel I begin talking with two beautiful, blond Danish girls -- how I love a coffee and Danish in the morning -- who've been, on this trip, to Africa, Indonesia, Malaysia and of course Thailand. They advise me that the surfable waves are all in Indonesia & particularly Bali. They leave in the morning back to Copenhagen and I miss them already. I talk also with a Swede who is here, I gather from a somewhat one-sided conversation on sex, to join the Lonely Hearts Club, by which title I will henceforth refer to those who come to Thailand to get their kicks below the belt, so to speak.
Day 2: Up with the sun. Excellent coffee (some of the only of that quality I'll see in a long while) from a street vendor, shower, and then Risto and I grab breakfast from an alleyway-turned-lunch-counter with several vendors and a lot of locals eating there -- always a good sign. We take a tuk-tuk to the Grand Palace where a friendly guy with excellent English explains that at that particular moment there is a Buddhist prayer session going and, anyways, Risto is wearing shorts which is considered disrespectful to the Buddha -- the former is a lie, the latter, true -- and thus we will not be allowed entry. Instead he shepherds us into another tuk-tuk which he says for the low-low price of 30 b will take us to see the lucky Buddha -- which was pretty cool though unphotographable -- and a silk manufacturer where we can price some uncut silk and also perhaps clothe Risto's shameful legs. I agree as I want to price some silk anyways. Two hours later we have seen three silk suit hawkers, each pushier than the last, one gold & precious stone merchant and, above all, the fabled Thai runaround. Fuck, we've been duped. But in the end it was only 30 baht and we got to see a bit more of the city than we might've just bumbling about on our own. As the tuk-tuk driver drops us back at the Grand Palace all I can think about is buying my bus ticket and getting far and fast away from the noisy hustle of Bangkok. When I go back, however, I'm going to see the inside of the Grand Palace if I have to storm it medieval-style. So, the first cab driver -- a convenient friend of the tuk-tuk driver who's just carted us around to be baht-baited -- offers to take us to the bus station for 500 baht. I say no thanks, smile, curse his mother under my breath and begin to walk away. Risto keeps talking to him. I won't be had again and I intend to walk until I find a metered taxi with a mute driver. Risto gets the picture and catches up with me after about a block. We hop into a cab and get to the bus station for a metered 110 baht. Tickets to Phuket are 628 b for 1st class, including meal service, water, snacks and a coffee in the morning. For 928 b we could've traveled VIP class, which means a wider, fully-reclineable seat without a neighbor. I find out later that both 1st class and VIP ride the same bus, the former on the top level and the latter on the lower of a double-decker bus and, further, that while on the bus you can upgrade to VIP status if you slip the cute stewardess 50 baht. The buses are faster & cheaper than the trains here in Thailand, but the trains offer all passengers sleeping berths & are almost assured not to crash. So, we're ticketed and have one more night in Bangkok. Risto wants to see the spectacle of Khao San Road and I'd rather sleep, but he drags me out anyways. We meet two Estonian girls and an Englishman at a backpacker's bar and go Chang for Chang -- the budget Thai beer -- with them while listening to a spot-on cover band and doing intermittent push-ups (long story). Thence to a dance club where we see some guy getting a blow-job just off the stage. We dance until four in the morning and then it's back to the New Road Guesthouse to grab 40 winks.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Onwards, downwards
It's been an uncounted number of days now since we stepped off the bus in Phuket Town and got the motor scooters (hereafter referred to as "the bikes") from Risto's friend Martin who runs a dive shop/hostel in Kata Beach. We explored Phuket Town -- interesting colonial architecture & not much more -- and spent a few days beach hopping the entire west coast -- the east doesn't have many beaches, and at those few there are vicious riptides -- until finally settling four days ago on Nai Yang in bungalows on the beach. The On On Hotel in Phuket Town was infested with bedbugs, giving me my first Thai souvenir, a line of terribly itchy bites down my right arm along with a now-abating insomnia caused by a DT-style psychosis: "there's fucking bugs crawling all over me!" So we left Phuket Town and settled in Nai Yang. It's fair to say that we traded up. The price? 1200 baht for 3 nights. Not bad considering that those without my inborn parsimony -- thanks Dad -- are paying 1000 baht per night.
The night before we left Phuket Town we painted it red with an Indonesian girl, a Chinese girl, two Thai guys and a girl, one Australian, one Austrian, and a partridge in a pear tree. My particular brand of flailing about on the dance floor is much beloved by the Thai people and I am now revered on a level second only to the King and/or the Buddha.
The beaches are very beautiful here, with crystal clear aquamarine water and soft sand that whistles/squeaks when you walk on it. It's only too bad that Phuket is filled with unsmiling tourists, the influx of which has caused the Thais to become mercenary and equally unsmiling. Yesterday I took off on a long run down the beach, falling into a sort of a trance as I ran, not noticing the growing blood-blisters on my feet until I felt a shooting pain go up my leg. I reinvented profanity when I turned around to see that I had run nearly half the length of the island and was now effectively hobbled by my sheer enthusiasm. So I began to swim back, soon realizing that that wasn't going to work what with darkness quickly falling and jellyfish in the water. I asked a guy with a motor raft how much it would be to ferry me back to my bungalow & he quoted me 1000 baht. Nothing doing. I walked into the nearest hotel and had them call me a taxi, but when he arrived he didn't have a meter -- always, ALWAYS make sure they have a meter or you'll end up paying whatever astronomical price they can imagine -- and so again I declined. The tourist boom has rung dollar signs into the eyes of all the Thais it has touched and even a guy who can barely walk can't catch a break. But barely walk I did, for four hours back down the beach, the monotony only broken by a beautiful sunset in neon pastels and a chance meeting with a Lithuanian girl who gave me a drink of water.
Two days later Risto and I decided to explore the northeast part of the island. We pulled into a marina to look at the boats and on a whim decided to leave our contact info on the notice board. An hour later Tom, the Alaskan owner of the S/V Saveke, gave us a call and asked if we could help him sail his boat down to Malaysia on a visa run. We decided to meet with Tom first to find out if he was enough of a psychopath to make the trip interesting. He is a retired long-line fisherman and seems like a nice guy, so in one week we sail for Malaysia. Until then we travel to Phi Phi island, then Koh Lanta, Krabi, Ao Nang, and back around to Phuket.
Update, February 6th: Phi Phi island is paradise, if paradise had a landfill's worth of garbage shipped in with a bunch of drunks from around the world. Sewage in the streets and emptiness in everyone's eyes. In other words it's a fucking nightmare and we left as soon as possible. We're now on Koh Lanta and it's much slower paced, although the beaches aren't as nice as those we've seen. I'll be glad to get back to the Saveke and help Tom bend his sails on. First we hike around Krabi and Ao Nang. Innocent out.
Post-script: a note on annoyances. "Tuk-tuk?" and "Where you going?" are two phrases you will hear on nearly a daily basis if you visit Thailand, the latter being simply an elongated version of the former. A tuk-tuk is a sort of three-wheeled open-air pickup driven at high speeds without regard for human life. It seems as if half the population of Thailand has tuk-tuks, and they all want to know where you're going. Take one once for the experience, agree on the price beforehand, and then buy a t-shirt with the phrase "No, I don't want a fucking tuk-tuk, a massage, or a suit, thank you very much," written on it in Thai.
The night before we left Phuket Town we painted it red with an Indonesian girl, a Chinese girl, two Thai guys and a girl, one Australian, one Austrian, and a partridge in a pear tree. My particular brand of flailing about on the dance floor is much beloved by the Thai people and I am now revered on a level second only to the King and/or the Buddha.
The beaches are very beautiful here, with crystal clear aquamarine water and soft sand that whistles/squeaks when you walk on it. It's only too bad that Phuket is filled with unsmiling tourists, the influx of which has caused the Thais to become mercenary and equally unsmiling. Yesterday I took off on a long run down the beach, falling into a sort of a trance as I ran, not noticing the growing blood-blisters on my feet until I felt a shooting pain go up my leg. I reinvented profanity when I turned around to see that I had run nearly half the length of the island and was now effectively hobbled by my sheer enthusiasm. So I began to swim back, soon realizing that that wasn't going to work what with darkness quickly falling and jellyfish in the water. I asked a guy with a motor raft how much it would be to ferry me back to my bungalow & he quoted me 1000 baht. Nothing doing. I walked into the nearest hotel and had them call me a taxi, but when he arrived he didn't have a meter -- always, ALWAYS make sure they have a meter or you'll end up paying whatever astronomical price they can imagine -- and so again I declined. The tourist boom has rung dollar signs into the eyes of all the Thais it has touched and even a guy who can barely walk can't catch a break. But barely walk I did, for four hours back down the beach, the monotony only broken by a beautiful sunset in neon pastels and a chance meeting with a Lithuanian girl who gave me a drink of water.
Two days later Risto and I decided to explore the northeast part of the island. We pulled into a marina to look at the boats and on a whim decided to leave our contact info on the notice board. An hour later Tom, the Alaskan owner of the S/V Saveke, gave us a call and asked if we could help him sail his boat down to Malaysia on a visa run. We decided to meet with Tom first to find out if he was enough of a psychopath to make the trip interesting. He is a retired long-line fisherman and seems like a nice guy, so in one week we sail for Malaysia. Until then we travel to Phi Phi island, then Koh Lanta, Krabi, Ao Nang, and back around to Phuket.
Update, February 6th: Phi Phi island is paradise, if paradise had a landfill's worth of garbage shipped in with a bunch of drunks from around the world. Sewage in the streets and emptiness in everyone's eyes. In other words it's a fucking nightmare and we left as soon as possible. We're now on Koh Lanta and it's much slower paced, although the beaches aren't as nice as those we've seen. I'll be glad to get back to the Saveke and help Tom bend his sails on. First we hike around Krabi and Ao Nang. Innocent out.
Post-script: a note on annoyances. "Tuk-tuk?" and "Where you going?" are two phrases you will hear on nearly a daily basis if you visit Thailand, the latter being simply an elongated version of the former. A tuk-tuk is a sort of three-wheeled open-air pickup driven at high speeds without regard for human life. It seems as if half the population of Thailand has tuk-tuks, and they all want to know where you're going. Take one once for the experience, agree on the price beforehand, and then buy a t-shirt with the phrase "No, I don't want a fucking tuk-tuk, a massage, or a suit, thank you very much," written on it in Thai.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
One night in Bangkok and the world's your oyster...
I arrived in Bangkok on Monday the 24th of January, 2011, which was, if you live in the United States, the 23rd of January. This is, of course, due to the fact that I flew over the International Date Line where the Day officially begins. If you're a friend of mine on Facebook you'll know that I joked that I had traveled into the future (I'm so clever) and was witnessing events to come, namely, a world populated by Asians. But you'll really have to squint to see that far into the future because the world's Latinozoids are predominantly Catholic and are therefore breeding like rabbits while here in Asia they like to fuck just as much, but bare electrical wires and car accidents seem to wipe them out almost as quickly as they can repopulate. I saw four or five crashes in one day in Bangkok, and the Estonian who's been traveling with me thus far informed me that in China cab drivers simply run down any pedestrian or bicycler foolhardy enough to attempt to cross the street. I guess when you've got that many people around, human life comes pretty cheap. I've always said that there are too many people on the planet but I never advocated killing any of them off -- yet I still maintain that couples should have to get a license to have a child -- and to see it happen doesn't gladden my heart at all, especially since I might be next.
The Estonian, Risto by name, began talking to me on the plane and we were going to part ways after we landed, but the three Finns he was going to go to Pattaya with were just too jazzed to get started with their sex tourism that they took off without him. If Risto himself is interested in the seamy side of life here in Thailand he hasn't mentioned it to me yet.
We stayed at the New Road Guesthouse in Bangkok's China Town, a really comfortable and cheap option -- $5 a night -- close to Silom Road, infamous for its Patpong area where you can, if you're looking for it, find any kind of sexual satisfaction, a la carte. I am not, let me repeat NOT, here in Thailand for sex. If I find a gorgeous fellow tourist I wouldn't have the heart to refuse her a night or three with me, but I find prostitution -- and especially the prostitution here which is basically a slave trade -- to be distasteful. I think that sex should be free and the result of a mutual attraction, not a commodity. Yet it is the world's oldest profession, and one that Bangkok specializes in. I was warned not to get into any "weird trouble" by my aunt before I came down here, and I take that to mean that she thinks I'll get involved in sex and/or drugs here (or something a bit more creative), which, to be honest, with my somewhat checkered past is not an hugely far-fetched assumption, though it's still insulting. I came to Thailand to find something, but that something is not a material thing and has nothing to do with debauchery. Don't ask me what that something is, however, as I couldn't begin to tell you. But I'll know when I find it.
Speaking of debauchery, I did go to Khao San Road the night before I left Bangkok and had a great time with two Estonian girls -- what's with all the Estonians? -- and an English guy. We went to a backpacker bar where there was a Thai dude doing really amazing renditions of American and English rock songs on the guitar, and afterwards we went dancing at a disco until four in the morning. Great fun. Risto kept asking me whether such and such a girl was a ladyboy or not, and I like to think that I could tell the difference at least 80% of the time, but some of them were, and will remain, mysteries to me.
We left for Phuket by bus the next morning, which is to say yesterday. The bus system here really puts Greyhound's tail between its legs. The buses here are double-deckers with the lower seats being VIP -- wide and fully reclining -- while the upstairs seats are about as wide as Greyhound's but recline much further and are infinitely more comfortable. There is television and meal service as well as snacks served by an attractive Thai woman in a smart suit and all included in the price of the ticket: about $20 to get from Bangkok to Phuket. Come on U.S.A., we can do better...
So we're in Phuket today and staying at the same hotel where Leonardo DiCaprio gets the map in the movie "The Beach". It's actually much nicer than they make it look in the movie -- though it is still bare-bones -- and for 180 baht you can't go wrong. Tomorrow we rent scooters and buzz around the island looking for the best beach, a sailboat to get on, and, God willing, some surf. Ciao for now, Innocent out.
The Estonian, Risto by name, began talking to me on the plane and we were going to part ways after we landed, but the three Finns he was going to go to Pattaya with were just too jazzed to get started with their sex tourism that they took off without him. If Risto himself is interested in the seamy side of life here in Thailand he hasn't mentioned it to me yet.
We stayed at the New Road Guesthouse in Bangkok's China Town, a really comfortable and cheap option -- $5 a night -- close to Silom Road, infamous for its Patpong area where you can, if you're looking for it, find any kind of sexual satisfaction, a la carte. I am not, let me repeat NOT, here in Thailand for sex. If I find a gorgeous fellow tourist I wouldn't have the heart to refuse her a night or three with me, but I find prostitution -- and especially the prostitution here which is basically a slave trade -- to be distasteful. I think that sex should be free and the result of a mutual attraction, not a commodity. Yet it is the world's oldest profession, and one that Bangkok specializes in. I was warned not to get into any "weird trouble" by my aunt before I came down here, and I take that to mean that she thinks I'll get involved in sex and/or drugs here (or something a bit more creative), which, to be honest, with my somewhat checkered past is not an hugely far-fetched assumption, though it's still insulting. I came to Thailand to find something, but that something is not a material thing and has nothing to do with debauchery. Don't ask me what that something is, however, as I couldn't begin to tell you. But I'll know when I find it.
Speaking of debauchery, I did go to Khao San Road the night before I left Bangkok and had a great time with two Estonian girls -- what's with all the Estonians? -- and an English guy. We went to a backpacker bar where there was a Thai dude doing really amazing renditions of American and English rock songs on the guitar, and afterwards we went dancing at a disco until four in the morning. Great fun. Risto kept asking me whether such and such a girl was a ladyboy or not, and I like to think that I could tell the difference at least 80% of the time, but some of them were, and will remain, mysteries to me.
We left for Phuket by bus the next morning, which is to say yesterday. The bus system here really puts Greyhound's tail between its legs. The buses here are double-deckers with the lower seats being VIP -- wide and fully reclining -- while the upstairs seats are about as wide as Greyhound's but recline much further and are infinitely more comfortable. There is television and meal service as well as snacks served by an attractive Thai woman in a smart suit and all included in the price of the ticket: about $20 to get from Bangkok to Phuket. Come on U.S.A., we can do better...
So we're in Phuket today and staying at the same hotel where Leonardo DiCaprio gets the map in the movie "The Beach". It's actually much nicer than they make it look in the movie -- though it is still bare-bones -- and for 180 baht you can't go wrong. Tomorrow we rent scooters and buzz around the island looking for the best beach, a sailboat to get on, and, God willing, some surf. Ciao for now, Innocent out.
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